


Children, Wake Up

by Rovardotter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Great Escape, Angst, Braavos is for lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 01:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1800838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rovardotter/pseuds/Rovardotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They haven't got a featherbed anymore. They sleep on straw and sand, but Theon's kisses and hushed words of devotion are the only softness Robb wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Children, Wake Up

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of epilogue to [Blow Up](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1659713/chapters/3521192), but it can definitely be read as a standalone.
> 
> So many thanks to my hunky beta, [SharpestKnife](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife), Protector of the English Language and Master of All Red Notes.

They live by the sea now, in a small lean-to under the wharf, and at night they can hear the waves crashing on the shore and drunken sailors pissing into the water; warm wind blows through the cracks in the walls.

They are never hungry. The sea is plentiful, Theon says, and he teaches Robb about the generosity of the waters. At evening Robb prepares bait, then hooks them onto his fishing pole when dawn breaks. He's doing many things that he's never done before. He washes their clothes, wrings them, hangs them to dry. He stitches the tears in Theon's breeches, fixes the laces of his tunic. He guts the fishes, cooks them in yesterday's gruel. They have no coin, but their cauldron is always warm and full.

By noon they go to the markets and sell their catch to the fishermen. Theon haggles with frowns and smiles, but manages to get an evening wine, some dark bread. They make do. The stifling heat is still hard on Robb; he burns easily, his skin is raw and red, and later by the shore Theon rubs an ointment on his shoulders. It doesn't soothe the pain, not really, but Robb hasn't the heart to tell him, not when it feels so nice.

He'll get used to the sun, Robb thinks, just like he's grown used to the fish and gruel, to the sea separating him from everything he's once known. At first he'd visit the taverns, search their benches for travellers bearing news from home: Winterfell returned to the King's Peace, Rickon sent as hostage to the capital, Bran now a broken lord. But Robb's stopped doing that, he doesn't want to know, because it hurts that it's lost any meaning or significance, and that just shows how far he has gone, how far they've both gone.

He'd always be a Westerosi, they see it when he speaks, so mayhaps that's why he stays quiet, just looks, lets the great city sink in, and remembers how his heart must have stopped beating when their ship passed under the Titan. He still feels that way every evening as they wander the narrow streets, through the canals, stop to browse stalls with artefacts from across the Jade Sea, watch a mummer's show. They don't understand a word, but they laugh, how they laugh.

A few days ago Robb sold his cloak to a passing sailor, had his direwolf brooch smelted to silver. They enjoyed a full meal that night, meat and Arbor gold and honey cakes, and later at night Robb cried on Theon's shoulder and let his gentle fingers sail him back home.

They haven't got a featherbed anymore. They sleep on straw and sand, but Theon's kisses and hushed words of devotion are the only softness Robb wants. And they don't fuck, don't follow that desperate rhythm on which they'd drugged themselves back in Winterfell, born out of pain and desolation. They make love, moist skin brushing on skin, a tangle of sweaty limbs, and afterwards they lie together and watch the foreign night stars through the cracks in the roof. And listen to the sound of the waves.

Robb can still smell the salt, and mayhaps that is why it's so painful to wake up. It's not the wound, not that cold bedchamber in the Crag; it's the smell of fresh fish and Theon's hands, and the sea rolling in his ears. And it hurts that he hears Theon mumbling those words, kind words ("my boy, I'll make you happy, are you happy now, Robb?") and the letter still clutched in his feverish hands screams other words, awful words.

Theon took over Winterfell, put to the sword two boys he'd once helped Robb tuck into bed, and hanged their burnt little bodies over the ramparts where he and Robb once hid and kissed until their lips were sore. And it sounds like a lie, every word the ravens bring is a dark, dark lie, and Theon, and Braavos, and the sound of the waves – well, isn't that the truth? Why can't this be the truth?

And it's the most terrible thing, isn't it, that it could have been.

So when the girl is at the door, he tells his guards to let her in. And when she pours medicine into his mouth, he drinks and thanks her. And when she rubs ointment on his wounds, he closes his eyes and thinks of sunburns and the scorching noon heat and the fishermen's smiles. And when she nestles beside him, touches her lips to his mouth, he kisses back, smells the salt, hears the waves.


End file.
